Act 2
Ave Imperator
Chapter 3: Decisions
"The state of the European Union before the Second Great War for Empire was one of almost suffocating tension and fear. After the Hemicycle approved the Military United Act in November 2026, every man, woman, and child in the Union was forced to recognize that whether they liked it or not, Britannia had come calling and would not be going away. Princess Cornelia's invasion of southern Spain had been their wake-up call, but it was the MUA that killed any naive hope of conciliation. His Majesty's actions in Neo-Japan had bought them six years to prepare, but after that it would be a fight for control of the world—and the loser would not emerge again.
So perhaps His Majesty's unannounced invasion of FPA-controlled Africa should have come as no surprise, though it did to most. While recruitment had been high throughout most of the Pax Romanist states, the construction of the Union Military had been hampered at every turn by a lack of raw materials. Without Tsar Alexander opening the previously-closed mines of Siberia to the cause, its creation might have been outright impossible. As it was, everyone in charge of the invasion knew that failure to secure Africa in time to build a force capable of taking on the Britannians would see the war lost before it even began. They could afford no loss of material, nor delay. Such was the need and urgency that even as the Army advanced south, special military work crews followed sometimes mere kilometers from the front lines, bringing abandoned mines back into action or taking control of autonomous farms—squeezing every ounce of production they could before the fated Recommencement Day.
Of course, the second they realized what we were doing the FPA started burning their fields behind them and collapsing mineshafts. His Majesty responded by sending an envoy to President Khoza, who very politely explained that while His Majesty was perfectly fine with the FPA defending what they felt was their rightful homeland, for every scorched farm or sabotaged mine he found, a food shipment bound for the native population he liberated would be redirected to Europe. He would acknowledge their grievances, but any acts of spite or resource-denial would come at the expense of the African people first. The attempts stopped shortly after that.
Say what you like about the morality of such an action, but His Majesty had an uncanny ability to deduce the motives and levers of his enemies. Unlike some of his more militant generals, Khoza cared more about helping the Africans than hurting the Europeans. Perhaps that sheds some context on the outcome of the OB-Summit—independent of any accusations regarding Prince Schneizel's influence in the affair.
Indeed, before His Majesty and Prince Schneizel had their eventual showdown, they indirectly fought tooth-and-nail for dominion in Africa and the Chinese Federation. It was perhaps those two theaters that decided the war's eventual outcome more than any during the actual war itself."
—[Excerpt from personal memoirs of High Marshal Gene Smilas: 'In His Majesty's Service'. Classified—Eyes Only]
Gasping for air, Kallen crawled from the simulator pod and nearly collapsed on the floor when her legs unexpectedly wobbled. How many hours had she and Cornelia's men been going at it? It had to have been at least four or five.
She'd thought that even with their own control rigs, she would thrash the Jovians with her Guren. And the first few rounds she'd been correct.
But then they'd started adapting.
Working in near perfect synchronicity, the five brothers managed to form a whole far deadlier than the sum of their parts. Thinking back on it, the last few hours had been the only time she'd ever really been challenged in a Knightmare since the control rig's installment. Or before that, come to mention it. Once they got a handle on her frame's abilities, they began to work out counters for them one at a time.
Her claw, they would a avoid or cripple from range. Its bombardment mode, they would dodge the first shot of, then close to melee before she could cycle the shell. She'd usually manage to knock a few of them out of the match, but the survivors would always take advantage of that to deal the killing blow.
She wanted to place all the credit on their control rigs, but really those just evened the playing field. The brothers were just that damn good.
It was infuriating. One on one, she knew that she could tear any single one of them apart—even in equivalent machines. But she'd gleaned that not only were they all highly-skilled, but that they'd been trained to fight cooperatively for years. The Irregulars were the same, she knew, but without their Geass she could defeat even them in the simulators.
The simulator pod next to hers unsealed with the hiss of compressed air being released. Alfred crawled out and flopped down a few feet from her, breathing just as hard. It hadn't occurred to Kallen before, but she now realized the deliberate placement of the Guren's simulator almost adjacent to the Stormbolts' in the Damocles' private Sim-bay.
A small smile twitched across her lips. Master Lelouch had planned for this somehow, hadn't he? At the very least that they would eventually train together. He might have just used their fight as an opportunity to force it. Christ, were it not for the docks yesterday, she'd think that his immortality had come with omniscience as well.
"Fuck me..." gasped Alfred between breaths. "I don't think we've had a fight like that since... ever, I think."
"Ditto," she wheezed back, swallowing heavily to avoid choking on her own spit before returning to her panting.
Claudio hauled himself out next, followed by Bart, David, and finally Edgar—all soaked in sweat and heaving like they'd just run a triathlon. If nothing else, she could take refuge that she'd pushed them at least as hard as they'd pushed her.
A control rig didn't actually require bodily movement to operate a rigged Knightmare, but the biofeedback they gave made their use a two-way street. After leaping around, diving, and shooting for long enough, you'd get aches and pains despite not having actually moved. Your heartbeat would accelerate, and even damage to the frame would translate into dampened physical pain. Nothing debilitating, but enough to let you know that you'd fucked up.
And she'd taken more than her fair share of damage over the last few hours.
"Well," proposed Edgar, as he lay face-down on the private Sim-bay's floor, "now that we've beaten the shit out of each other for most of an afternoon, what do you say we grab some food and booze from the officer's canteen and bury the hatchet like proper adults?"
Alfred did a sit up into a seated position. "Sounds like a plan to me. Kozuki?"
Kallen considered it for a moment. Like Master Lelouch had said, these boys were essentially just her from the other side. And so long as Cornelia followed Master Lelouch, their interests were one-and-the-same.
And with the prowess she'd just seen... together they would be able to annihilate anything that stood in the New Order's path.
"If we're burying the hatchet, call me Kallen. Just one condition though: if we're not deployed, these spars are going to become a daily thing. Understand?"
"Why Kallen," said Alfred coyly, "you do know how to make a boy blush."
The White Orchard district's police precinct was small compared to most. And considering the commercial district was mostly abandoned, it had faced large budget cutbacks on top of that. Were it not for the lights inside and the squad cars parked outside, one could well believe that it was abandoned.
While awaiting backup, Reid busied himself with reading through the daily reports sent to him over his PDA. Recruitment was going well, but it wouldn't undergo the necessary upswell until next week, when Tsar Alexander would be making his public statement of support for the party. Having the largest and unaligned nation in the Union suddenly throw its long-standing neutrality away for an unknown party would thrust them into a spotlight they'd never leave.
He'd be on every talkshow in the Union, and every man and woman dissatisfied with the status quo would flock to Master Lelouch's future banner.
It was a wonderfully cyclical snowball effect. His publicity would bring supporters, and his supporters would bring publicity. The simple wonder of a third party with such an unorthodox stance would keep them in the news day after day, keeping their name fresh in the public's eye.
And with the reclusive Tsar Alexander issuing support for them, the Vox would be unable to silence the party like they or the Pax did most. No manufactured scandals would arise, nor would bomb components mysteriously be found when the police raided his headquarters. There would be far too many eyes on his party for that to happen.
The Pax, of course, would issue token resistance, but Kaiser Wilhelm knew his script by heart. He'd wait until Ave recruitment in the Pax nations plateaued, then issue his own statement of support to spice things up. By the time Master Lelouch had Africa in hand well enough to make a return to Europe, all would be in place for the commencement of Operation Imperium.
A soft rumbling and the glare of headlights finally drew his attention from the PDA. He glanced backwards through the car's tinted windows, and saw the van in place.
Stepping out of the car and into the cool Paris night, Reid approached the van's driver door. The Shadow already had it rolled down, though the dim light hid his face.
"Pull through the side alley and park around the back. Be ready ready to receive two uncooperative subjects. Once in hand, take them to Site 6, restrain them, and await my arrival."
The Shadow leaned in slightly, his sunglasses gleaming in the moonlight. "Permission to loosen them up prior to that?"
Reid smiled. He often forgot that many of Master Lelouch's followers were just as... enthusiastic as he. "Indulge yourselves, so long as they're still lucid and conversational once I arrive. And go ahead and prep a burn car to dispose of them when we're done."
"Anywhere specific?"
"Not yet."
Smiling back, the Shadow nodded and pulled the van around to follow his instructions.
Without prompt, Mr. Lupin then stepped from the car and took his usual post at Reid's shoulder. Bodyguard and negotiator in one, the taciturn German Shadow was key to much of Reid's success thus far. With the ability to force commands on anyone whose name he knew, he was perhaps the most versatile agent in Reid's arsenal. Geass, truly an ability gifted by the gods to ensure Master Lelouch's victory.
With confident, casual strides he entered the precinct.
An exhausted-looking woman in an officer's uniform was manning the desk—looking as she'd rather be doing literally anything else—but otherwise the lobby was empty at this hour. Her head didn't even turn towards them as they approached the desk, though her eyes swiveled briefly towards them. In the reflection of her glasses, Reid saw that she was playing Solitaire on her computer.
"Officer Parks?" asked Lupin, reading the name tag on her uniform. Always useful for him, when dealing with low-level officials. The lace of Geass in his voice caused her head to snap up, locking on him almost eagerly.
"Yes, can I help you sir?"
Lupin's expression did not change from his cold, business-like demeanor. "Two suspects were brought in about fifteen minutes ago for assault at the God of Clay tavern, yes?"
"That's correct sir. They're currently in holding."
"Were they processed yet?"
The woman nodded, the stupor of Geass keeping her entranced. "They were. They had no ID on them though, and their prints were not in the system. Captain Martin said to cut them loose once we were done processing them, though the arresting officers have not done so yet."
Of course not. When Reid had Mr. Lupin command the officers, part of that instruction had been to keep the prisoners there until his arrival, no matter what.
Lupin frowned. "Why did the Captain order you to release them?"
"I do not know, sir," said the officer blankly.
"Speculate."
"Captain Martin's not a soft man when executing his job, so for him to order the release of prisoners with pending assault charges, there was likely political pressure involved."
Shit. Lupin met his eyes, and the word passed between them. Whoever sent these thugs had some significant pull them. That complicated things.
Lupin's gaze returned to the spellbound officer. "You will do as your Captain instructed you, and if questioned will testify to that. But you will make absolutely no mention of our visit tonight, and erase all recordings of it. Understand?"
The woman nodded eagerly, already fiddling with her computer. "Yes, sir."
"You will also give us access to holding."
"Yes, sir."
She pressed a button under her desk, giving off a loud buzz and unlocking the door leading to the holding cells. Lupin took the lead, with Reid keeping a step behind his bodyguard just in case.
The line of cells were utterly wretched. Vomit, blood, and other bodily fluids were smeared across the concrete they were constructed from—and they were simply hosed down about once a week from the look of the drains on the floors.
Their wayward thugs were still snoozing in the furthest cell, and their commandeered police were sipping coffee and playing cards at a table in the room's corner.
As soon as they noticed his entrance, they snapped to their feet.
"Sirs," snapped the sergeant, "as instructed, we've kept the suspects here for you. The Captain ordered their release, so technically they're not supposed to still be here. He won't check on the cells until morning, though."
"Good," said Lupin. "Two of you, cuff them and escort them out the back. Several men with a van will greet you, and you will deliver them to their custody. The other two, take me to speak with your Captain. After we part ways, you keep all secret elements of our interaction to yourselves. Understand?"
"Sir!" barked the officers, before moving to fulfill their orders.
Lupin turned to him, the distraction of rapid calculation evident on his face. Eventually, he reached a course of action. "If you would, take the van to Site 6 and begin questioning the prisoners. Until you can get them to give up their names, I won't be much use there anyways. I'll interrogate and wipe the Captain, before taking the car to meet you there and brief you on what I've learned."
"Sounds good," agreed Reid. "And be careful. I don't like the feeling of this whole thing."
"I don't either, but we need a lid on this situation."
Hired bruisers. Corrupt police. Political strings. All of them spelled one thing.
Complications.
Lelouch groaned the last gasp of a dying man as Sayoko's inexplicably delicate hands had their way with his tense back.
"You know pet," he mused, facedown on one of his office's long chaise lounges, "I think you use your Shiatsu training more these days than your Kunoichi."
His spymaster tittered, rubbing her thumb against a knot in just the right way to make it untangle. "Same principles, really. Find stress point, apply precise pressure until it gives. And despite what you may have seen, I have been training the upper echelons of the Frumentarii. My skills are nowhere near out of practice. You should keep an eye on Jeremiah though. I think he's starting to get a bit of a gut."
"With his heightened metabolism?" snorted Lelouch. "He'd need to eat half a granary a day."
Sayoko paused in her reply as she unraveled a particularly lumpy knot. "Have you seen him in the canteen when he's off-duty? In terms of barley, I think he's going through at least two granaries."
"Then have a word with the quartermaster and cut him off."
"You think he'd listen to me?" she snorted. "I'm a delicate, admittedly drop-dead slip of a woman. Gottwald's seven feet, four hundred pounds of muscle, and if Asplund wasn't joking last I talked to him, can now shoot lasers from his eyes."
Lelouch was forced to consider that rebuttal. While the laser eyes bit did sound like the product of Asplund's uniquely dry sense of humor, it also sounded like something Jeremiah just might bully the poor scientist into building for him. Come to think of it... he'd stopped by his knight's quarters several days ago to retrieve him for a meeting and seen a bag of marshmallows on a desk.
"Emphasis on the 'drop-dread'," he opted for instead, deciding that discretion was the better part of valor when it came to Jeremiah's off-duty hobbies.
"You flatterer you," she smirked, smacking his shoulder, though there was definite pleasure in her voice at the compliment. He noted a tone of sensuality enter her movements on his back.
The even tone of C.C's voice wafted over from the opposite side of his austere office, where she was reading Don Quixote. "If this conversation's moving in a sexual direction, I recommend we relocate to the bedchamber. Cornelia and Euphemia wouldn't want to be left out."
"I'm afraid not," he replied, glancing up at the room's clock. Sayoko's disappointment was almost palpable, though she dutifully continued her ministrations. "Kallen's still bonding with the Darlton boys. We'll not get started until she returns. She misbehaved greatly yesterday, and has a punishment waiting for her when she joins us tonight. I do believe that Cornelia even acquired a paddle for the occasion."
That got his assassin's blood going. "I'll ensure you get a turn as well," he promised solemnly.
"Spanking or spanked?" C.C asked in clarification. He spied a catlike smirk on her face, well-concealed behind the thick cover of her book.
"Why choose?" murmured Sayoko under her breath.
Lelouch coughed slightly. "Before we get too sidetracked, how soon will we be ready to leave Tangiers?"
"Hm. Tomorrow evening at the earliest." He could nearly feel the embarrassed heat coming from Sayoko's face. "The FPA's regional governor attempted to flee, but I had my Frumentarii intercept him. After some gentle persuasion, he gave up a list of all the known collaborators and sympathizers in the city. I'm having them seen to, so as long as Smilas does his job, the city should have no internal problems. And with the four divisions he'll be bringing across, it should be secure externally as well."
When it came to intelligence and coercion, Lelouch trusted none better than Sayoko. The notion of leaving Tangiers with only four divisions as garrison still didn't sit well with him though considering the FPA's size, but he knew that if Khoza wanted his remaining ports secure, he'd only be able to spare four himself. "Well done. Updates abroad?"
"Steady advancement for the party in Europe. Significant spike in your book sales actually, with the news. Minister Philippe issued a tentative statement of praise for your success to save face, but the Vox as a whole are still attempting to tear you down. Kewell reports that he and Kaguya have finally finished weaning Neo-Japan off of European labor. We're now self-sufficient, population-wise. And I believe Reuben made a breakthrough with Project Daedalus, but he's not sent a report of his own yet."
"Oh?" said Lelouch at the end. If Reuben's little AI project bore fruit in time for deployment against Britannia, it would be a substantial game-changer. He was nowhere near naive enough to believe that Schneizel and his little think tanks won't have developed a counter to his airships by R-Day—so new tech would be one of the deciding factors.
And wasn't that a daunting thought? The next four years, his older brother would be analyzing his every tactic, strategy, and mistake.
His older brother, who had been the only opponent he'd never beaten at chess. Of course, Kewell had long ago beaten into him the lesson that chess was a mere game, in no way reflective of generalship, but a part of his mind still dreaded the inevitable showdown. Chess was not war, but you could still glean elements of an opponent's mindset from it, and he knew that Schneizel would be his most challenging enemy.
When dealing with an conflict, Lelouch's preferred strategy was to identify the 'tipping point' upon which the battle's outcome rested, and hit it with everything he had. The Occupation's Knightmares, the Mt. Fuji Mines' control room, and on a larger scale Japan itself to Britannia's military complex.
But Schneizel was the only opponent he'd ever encountered that simply had no tipping points. His strategy was just... perfect. Whatever the situation was, Schneizel would execute the best response to it based on all available data. The only ways Lelouch could think to beat him would be through either subterfuge, or such overwhelming force that perfect strategy simply wouldn't matter.
While confident in his espionage capabilities, Lelouch knew that Schneizel was aware of his own weakness to deception. It was the reason in his tenure as Prime Minister, he'd more than doubled to size of the Homeland Intelligence Service. Even for the Shadows, pulling a gambit off on his brother would be exceedingly tricky.
Thus, he'd been endeavoring to secure overwhelming force as a backup, but the damnable stranglehold on resources constantly throttled his production lines.
It wasn't even intentional, and Schneizel was still cutting him off at every turn. The FPA had been engineered to starve Europe of wheat, not steel, but they were still the obstacle keeping him from building an ample military for his purposes.
In all honesty his brother would be a prime acquisition for the New Order, but the thought made him hesitate. He loved his brother, but Schneizel had always been... difficult to read. He carried a charming and reasonable outward face, but Lelouch knew that there was a cold calculating side beneath the exterior. Yet what it served to calculate towards had always eluded him.
The simple answers: money, power, prestige, all of them Schneizel already possessed in spades. His desires had to be something deeper, and without knowing, Lelouch had no angle to work from.
"Oh dear, his face has gone all brooding again," droned C.C, in a tone that was a dead ringer for Milly's typical mockery. "What was it this time, Lelouch dear? Imagining your inevitable fiery, climactic showdown with Britannia? Or just practicing your dark and fearsome scowl?"
He rolled his eyes, before sitting up. Sayoko dutifully handed him his shirt, which he put on. "Just thinking about the road ahead."
"Well stop," said Sayoko strictly, "or you'll knot your back up all over again."
"But then he'd have to take his shirt off again," C.C said, temptation laced in her voice.
His head of intelligence wavered, but persevered. "I must look after my Master's wellbeing. To put personal feelings over that would be a failure of my duty."
"Good to know you're still on my side, pet," chuckled Lelouch, pulling her in for a soft kiss and pulling away before it could escalate. "I think we've accomplished as much as we can for now. Gene will want to brief me first thing in the morning, but we have tonight to ourselves."
C.C pantomimed a sniffle. "I think more beautiful words have never been spoken."
"Again."
The word made Louis' heart sink. He took a deep breath as the soaked rag was applied to his face once more, then the water came. Eventually his lungs gave out and he inhaled. It wasn't real, he wasn't drowning. But his mind couldn't be convinced of that. It told him that he was dying.
After what felt like eternity, the downpour stopped and the rag was removed. Gruff hands righted the chair he was tied to.
"I can do this all night," said his torturer. "Your name. It's all I ask. Not your employer, not your comrades. Just your fucking name."
But Louis held out, even as he gasped for air. He hadn't joined the Guardians of Liberty to be soft. The moment he gave in even an inch to his interrogators, he would lose. This pain could be borne.
"You're going to tell me eventually. Believe me, we can do this to you a hell of a lot longer than you can be stubborn. The only question is whether or not you tell us your name before we do some damage that you won't walk away from.
It was clear that these men had never seen true resolve. They wouldn't break him, no matter what they thought.
His interrogator sighed. "Grab me some pliers. Hard way it is then."
One of the goons behind Louis rummaged around in the dark mechanic's garage. Several seconds later, a pair of pitted, rusted pliers were passed to his torturer by a set of gloved hands. "What do you you think?" he asked the room at large. "Fingernails or teeth? I mean, teeth always get answers, but fingernails have a much nicer buildup with room for elaboration."
"Fingernails," answered a woman's voice. "Teeth do work better, but its irritating to talk to them afterwards."
"Point. Fingernails it is then."
Without further ceremony his masked torturer grabbed one of Louis' ziptied hands, and—
He screamed. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't even clamp down on it slightly. There were no metaphors or analogies to describe it. It felt like having his fingernails ripped out with rusty pliers. The waterboarding had been bad, but it hadn't been real. This was real.
Something thin and blood-soaked was waved before his eyes, but he barely registered it before losing consciousness.
Diethard cursed as the larger bruiser passed out for the second time. It was getting very late, and there was only so much that adrenaline shots could do. But without a name, Lupin couldn't do anything—and none of the other Geass Shadows assigned to him possessed the sort that would be useful for interrogation.
He needed to know who this man worked for, and he needed to know fast.
Ashford might have some interrogation drugs that could be shipped over, or some spare agents capable of more direct information extraction, but he didn't want to draw on Master Lelouch's resources unless absolutely necessary.
Yet he might have to. His movements were essentially paralyzed until this mysterious enemy was identified, and the timetable was already set. Tsar Alexander would be kicking off the Ave Imperator party properly within the next week, so Reid couldn't have these sort of loose ends lying about for the Vox to pick up on. In fact, it was almost certain that this enemy had ties to the Vox, making him all the more dangerous.
What was the phrase? 'Damned if you do, damned if you don't?'
"I'll need to return to the hotel for tonight," he said eventually. "Don't let up until he gives you a name. Rotate shifts if you have to, and notify me the moment you make progress. If there are no updates by the time I wake up, I'll send for Ashford's assistance."
The four Shadows and Lupin all snapped to salutes. Diethard returned them, but the frustration of the situation kept him distracted.
Hopefully, with Lady Malcal's assistance, this sort of problem wouldn't crop up in the future.
Gene rubbed his tired eyes, and took another sip of his coffee. How he longed for sleep, but there was far too much to be done. With His Majesty's sudden reappraisal of the FPA forces, he was left with the unenviable task of tightening down all existing policies in such a way that it was not obvious—along with double-checking that the details of the invasion plan would still work under the new evaluation.
He concurred with His Majesty's prediction that the FPA would move the three Trisaggitis divisions up from New Paris, and attempt a triple-envelopment from the flanks by bringing in the two Black Stars divisions from Rabat and Oran. The Airborne would be dealing with the Oran division enroute, so he would be squaring off against four.
His men were well-trained and as equipped as they could be under the circumstances, but the FPA were ferocious and battle-hardened. Ideally, he'd like to place troops in the mountains so as to turn the terrain against the enemy, but as many a general had learned from Thermopylae, a single unknown bypass could prove disastrous to a plan like that.
No, a tight perimeter would be best. Isolated to perhaps three miles around the city, with aerial reconnaissance over the Atlas Mountains as an early-detection system. So long as they held the beachhead, they could eventually overstretch the FPA as His Majesty rapidly seized their coastline.
Only two concerns continued to trouble him. Both centered around Britannia's damnable 'Black Subs'. Apparently the product of one of Prince Minister Schneizel's many think tanks, the vehicles were all but undetectable by every method in his Navy's disposal. They were why Britannia had been able to wage unrestricted naval warfare against the Union for years now without any reprisal.
The first issue was that, with these subs out there, it was virtually impossible to completely secure the Strait of Gibraltar. Ashford had provided him with a new type of underwater-mounted sonar units that should theoretically detect any subs that passed near one, but they were completely untested against the Black Subs.
But he'd had crews line the opening of the strait with them anyway, and thus far all had been quiet. Which was either very good, or utterly disastrous.
And second, the French-West-African 'Diamond Dogs' had five divisions securing the region's western coastline, despite Black Subs keeping the area from European ships. They were technically within reinforcement range of Tangiers as well. If Khoza decided to be particularly short-sighted, he could divert them and drop a full nine divisions onto Tangiers.
It would be ultimately foolhardy, as Gene could just retreat his soldiers into Spain before having His Majesty bring the airfleet back to eliminate them, but it would cost precious time that they had little of to spare.
Unfortunately, as with the subs themselves, he had no real solution to this problem. Perhaps by sending a few ships to harass the western coast he could convince them to remain in place, but if the Black Subs sank them, it would be a massive loss of materials.
He supposed that all he could do was hope the His Majesty secured the north quickly enough that they could begin pushing south. Once they began reclaiming mines, the Union war machine could begin chugging in earnest, but at the moment it was hanging by a thread.
Trade with the Federation could have offset the deficiency, but the Eunuchs knew the desperate situation of the Union. When His Majesty had attempted to negotiate a trade deal, the ultimatum they'd sent him had been positively outrageous. In addition to 75% of Neo-Japan's Sakudadite exports, laughable in itself, they had demanded a tariff on all goods they traded that would in essence completely cover their extraction costs—meaning that the entire payment would go right into the Eunuchs' pockets as profit.
His Majesty had been expecting a raw deal, but the sheer arrogance contained in the message had made him... displeased. Gene did not know what plans he had in plan for the Federation now, but he doubted that they ended well for the Eunuchs.
Draining the last of his coffee, he signed off on the final order from his 'urgent' pile. The rest could be left for the morning in... five hours.
God damn it.
Schneizel moved his white bishop forward, and after a moment brought the black queen out to meet it. He wasn't truly playing the game, merely using it as a tool to visualize his assets and obstacles.
He had to admit it: this 'Emperor Zero' was beginning to seriously intrigue him, hence his status as the queen—the most dangerous piece on the board.
Naturally, he'd been keeping track of the Union's politics with interest, and while Gene Smilas' controversial decision to appoint Zero as Grand Marshal of the Union military had come as a surprise, he'd thought it very fortuitous. Leading a resistance group against a small occupational government with international backing was one thing. Waging war on a continental scale was another.
Yet from the looks of it, Zero was pulling it off with almost contemptuous ease. He'd even somehow preempted and stolen Schneizel's own plans for the Avalon to serve as a prototype for a new fleet of shielded airships.
Already, he had Asplund tearing apart every piece of data they could get on those airships, trying to deduce their capabilities and weaknesses.
But where had Zero acquired the rest of that technology? The airfleet he could believe had been adapted from what they scavenged from the Avalon, whatever had happened to it, but the rest? It was highly improbable that the Union had been developing military tech like that without his knowledge.
Ashford. It had to have been Ashford. The man's unofficial status as a Neo-Japanese hostage had deeply grieved him, both for the man's loyalty to Britannia and the loss of his technical skills. But his facilities had also been located in the Tokyo Settlement. If Zero had managed to raid them, every project the man had been working on would have been turned against his homeland.
That was... unfortunate. While he'd grown frustrated with the man's repeated setbacks in creating a production-model seventh generation KMF, it was undeniable that the man was a rare genius. The sort of man that an entire empire counted as a strategic asset.
Asplund may have created the Lancelot, but Schneizel had been forced to send the design to three separate think tanks before one could turn it into the Vincent. Whereas Ashford had invented the Knightmare.
And now, thanks to Zero, the Vincent design was forced to undergo revisions that would make it far less Sakuradite-dependent. Worse, the entire marker of seventh-generation of KMFs was the integration of Sakuradite lacing into the body of the frame itself—increasing conductivity, responsiveness, and power. He couldn't mass produce frames like that anymore. Not without either finding new deposits or developing a substitute.
He had all the raw materials he could ever want, but a relatively minuscule amount of Sakuradite. The Union now had around eighty percent of the world's Sakuradite, but the FPA were still starving them from Africa. Rather ironic, really.
And speaking of, he'd need to contact Khoza soon to offer his advice. Pushing for the man's appointment as 'President' of the FPA had been a risky move, but the success or failure of the separatists had depended on whether or not they could gain the support of the African people. For while the average African had a number of gripes with the European establishment, they had also been citizens of it for centuries. In order to obtain their support, he'd needed to place Khoza's level-headed image as its face.
While it hadn't worked quite as well as he'd hoped, the FPA would still be a time-consuming challenge for Zero and the Union to deal with—one that would bleed them of their limited resources. All he needed to do these next two years was talk the Eunuchs off the edge and prolong the African conflict.
Once a personal union was established between Britannia and the Federation, Europe would crumble like a poorly-built house of cards. He could properly invade them, then pull out his calming hand from the FPA and watch them tear themselves apart, before conquering them under the casus foederis of intervention.
To be completely honest the idea of outright subjugating the Union left a bad taste in his mouth, but he had little choice. Without a leader who could make unilateral decisions for them, he had no way to consolidate them with Britannia that didn't involve conquest. A failing of democracy, he supposed. The Union's people would not make a decision that was in their best interest, so he was forced to make it for them.
The people of the Chinese Federation would be unlikely to take the personal union well, but they'd have no choice. They would be somewhat bitter and resentful, but their children would be raised knowing no other alternative—and within two generations would be happy citizens of the empire.
Meanwhile, the Europeans would hate Britannia. They would despise it. And that hatred would linger. Unless dealt with in utmost delicacy, Britannia would be dealing with unrest and revolt in Europe for centuries.
Schneizel knew it all too well. He was playing a dangerous game to decide the fate of the world. The lives of millions would weigh on his every move. And should he lose...
World war. On a scale unimaginable. Cities leveled, billions starving or laying dead in craters. The utter dissolution of society and order as it was currently known. Perhaps even the extinction of man itself.
Three superpowers, each fundamentally opposed to the others. The alliance between Britannia and the Federation would tip the triangular balance, meaning that this state pf affairs would come to a head. Schneizel was confident that his years of planning would see the decisive victory he so dearly needed, but the weight on his shoulders still kept him up at night.
He looked down at the chessboard before him and the empty chair across from it. The question niggled to the forefront of his mind.
Who would his opponent emerge to be?
The shriek of rising mortar shells stirred Friedrich from his slumber, and immediately he was filled with resigned dread. Another night raid.
Though superior in numbers, the FPA were no match strategically for General Joffre of the French Colonial Garrison. While the Crimson Night had taken its toll in the southern regions of Africa, the uprisings had been put down before they grew out of control. Unfortunately, the same could not be said north of the Congo. When it had become clear that the newly-arisen 'Free Peoples of Africa' were advancing south to take the rest of the continent, Joffre had taken action.
Coordinating with the German Colonial Garrisons, he'd established a 3500 kilometer defensive line roughly along the 5th Southern Parallel, following the borders of German South Africa, German East Africa, and the southern edge of the Congolese rainforest.
Administrators in Europe had called it a 'gross overreaction' and 'senseless escalation', only to shut their mouths when thousands of FPA soldiers had slammed against the line within a month, aided by small pockets of Britannian support infantry that had landed in the newly-created dark zones of the coastal defenses.
Tanks, artillery, and KMF strike forces had made every attempt to break through the line, but Joffre had an uncanny ability to predict attacks and reinforce the weak points.
So these days, the FPA just settled for making themselves a draining nuisance.
Friedrich buckled his pants on and stumbled up the circular staircase into his 140mm medium artillery battery. Ernst was already in there, loading a shell magazine into the autocannon.
"Another raid on the forward defenses," muttered Peter, their spotter, darkly. While their concrete bastion was dug into a large hill, immune to even bunker buster missiles, their outer lines of mines, small pillboxes, tanktraps, and barbed wire were easier prey for the FPA. They usually inflicted few casualties by themselves during the raids, but they would destroy defenses that needed to be repaired—and those repair crews were always under constant attack by snipers, mortars, and light aircraft.
Peter rattled off adjustments, before Friedrich pulled the cannon's trigger and unleashed a string of danger-close shells along the first line of barbed wire.
"Negative effect on targets, adjusting," said Peter, still eyeing the attackers under the glow of illumination shells as he gave new designations. "Oh, that's interesting. They've rolled out one of their MBTs to clear the wire. They're either getting cocky or desperate."
"Corrections made, firing. And the latter probably. With the Hemicycle finally getting off its ass and sending Zero down, I imagine Khoza's finally starting to feel the heat," said Ernst as he let off another salvo. Peter eyed the line intensely, before cursing.
"Clipped the tank, but its still rolling. Double time, boys, before it crawls back behind the treeline."
Friedrich slotted another magazine, tossing the empty one into the reload pile. Ernst dialed in the final, adjusted designations and loosed the volley. Squinting out the firing port, Friedrich was gratified to see the hot red of burning diesel suddenly light up a stretch of no-mans-land. "Got the fuckers. To be honest, I'm not even entirely sure the Hemicycle actually sent Zero. Heard from Lieutenant Walters that there'd been no officer's chatter down here about the counter-invasion before yesterday."
"Cease fire. Looks like losing their tank made Abdul lose his appetite for tonight," said Peter, before he snorted and finally turned to face them. "You honestly think Zero's acting unilaterally? This is fucking 2028, Fried. Even a High Marshal can't just launch an entire invasion without reading in at least the Prime Minister."
"All I'm saying is that we didn't know jack about it. It wasn't in the news, and you know that if Philippe or the Hemicycle had decided to take back Africa from the FPA, they'd have been crowing it from the fucking rooftops."
Ernst nodded. "Fair point. Might have just been putting strategy above opinion for once, though."
"Now that's even less likely. Zero might have been acting by himself. I mean, Joffre built the entire fucking line by himself, even declared martial law and commandeered civilian work crews to make sure it got done in time. That violates about half a dozen military ordinances, I believe, but he got away with it because he was right."
That gave the room pause. If Zero had launched an independent counter-invasion of Africa with the stated intention of relieving them, they owed him quite a lot.
"Well, since we're up anyway, anyone feel like raising a glass?" suggested Friedrich.
It was the crack of dawn that finally made Philippe give up on the notion of sleeping that night. He'd hardly slept a wink since becoming Prime Minister. His entire life, he'd dreamed of rising to the Union's highest office—of becoming the most powerful man in Europe.
Then he'd learned how EU politics really worked. His ascension to Prime Minister had involved secretly allying with five different, high-ranking, and opposed Vox Populi members, betraying three of them, and convincing the remaining two to turn on one another before finally convincing the survivor, Jean Renard, the current leader of the party, to back his run for Prime Minister.
It had worked, but the process had forced Philippe to realize just how cutthroat the Union could be. He had to constantly keep his guard up, analyzing every single move made by both his enemies and allies. It was exhausting, but ironically the stress kept him up at night.
For example, deciding his long-term response to Emperor Zero's little stunt in Africa. Smilas' decision to put the man in charge of the Union Military was still indecipherable. The general had been a rising star in French politics, and the unexpected appointment had put that entire career track at risk. And for who? Some terrorist with delusions of grandeur from a backwater island in the Pacific, one who had narrowly managed to barge his way into the Central Hemicycle.
Damn Zero. Punishing him wasn't a viable option, despite what he did arguably being treason. He could see how that would go down in court. Zero would argue that the existing state of conflict between Europe and the FPA constituted grounds for military action, and the public would crucify anyone that spoke out against their new war hero.
The only option that didn't make him look impotent had been to praise Zero's actions and pretend that it had been secretly approved, much as that pained him.
It was clear the Zero was a renegade with his own ambitions, one that would need a close eye kept on him. If the man's loyalty wasn't in question, Smilas would be a good choice for that, but now Philippe would need an outside observer. Leblanc? Travers? Martin?
Chastain. The members of his Protection Service were the only men in the Union that he trusted. He'd handpicked every single one of them, not for fear of assassination, but because they were monitoring him constantly. A single mole among them, and an enemy could destroy him at will. Their loyalty to him was without question, as was their discretion.
He smiled. Zero would escape punishment for his actions, but Philippe would still be making his displeasure known to the masked upstart.
Passers-by parted around Leila as she strolled through the Parc de Buttes-Chaumont in the early morning. Of course, they usually did when you walked through a park leading a pair of dogs the size of an average man.
As a young woman living alone in a city like Paris, Leila had long ago accepted that even the gun she carried was not enough to deter some gutter trash. Hence her adoption of a pair of male Great Danes by the names of Romulus and Remus. Their size and intimidation factor ensured that she was unmolested anywhere she went with them, which was ironic considering their rather docile and obedient nature.
She reached her usual bench along the bank of the artificial lake in the park's center and let her dogs off their leash to go play. Even in her large apartment the two were a bit cooped up, so she made a habit of letting them run themselves out here every morning.
Watching those that walked by through the park, Leila noted an odd change. They walked slightly taller, with straighter backs and more ease in their posture. Its near-universality puzzled her, as she pondered its cause.
'Emperor Zero', she eventually realized with a shock. She'd missed the news yesterday, busy managing her portfolio, but apparently it had hit the streets of Paris like a surprise holiday. Six years of economic and social depression were coming to an end, and action was finally being taken to neutralize the looming guillotine blade of Britannia that hung over the Union.
But even with that news, the typical tranquility she found in this place didn't come to her this morning, mostly due to the knowledge of the business card in her pocket.
The events of the previous night still felt unreal, like a dream. But the bullet missing from her gun's magazine said otherwise. She'd killed a man last night, and thanks to Mr. Price she'd gotten away with it. She owed him.
Yet a part of her brain told her that the man was trouble. Perhaps the way he'd known that she was a Countess. It felt almost like a setup.
'The world is on our shores. We need an Emperor, not an assembly!'
Still, even now, Price's words rang with her, breathing new life into a fire in her that she had thought long-extinguished. The fire that had sunk beneath the waves of the English Channel along with little Lucille's cold body. The Ave Imperator party's message was one she agreed with. Its leader had personally offered an invitation to her, after saving her from certain death or imprisonment. And all he had asked in return was for her to hear out his offer.
An offer. That was all it was. Something to be listened to, with no obligation to accept.
Her jaw straightened as she reached her resolution.
"More tea, mistress?"
"Yes please, if you would," answered Nunnally, having learned long before now that any attempt to have Bella and Lucinda call her by name would be met with polite refusal. That wasn't to say that they weren't friendly and nice, just stiff and formal as well.
Using the clink of china as her guide, she lifted the refilled teacup and took a sip of the sweetened brew. Three sugars was a bit much, but Nunnally liked her tea to be sweet.
"Has there been any word from Big Brother?"
"Master Lelouch sent a message late last night," said Bella, "but you were asleep. He apologizes and says that its unlikely he'll be able to come home any time before Christmas. He's overseeing a project in Europe that will require constant attention, though if he gets an unexpected break, he promises to fly back and visit you. He also says that he's set aside time today for a phonecall if you would like."
Nunnally beamed. "That would be very nice. I can tell him all about my studies with the tutors."
"I think he'd like that, mistress. Between you and me, I think Master Lelouch has been very stressed of late, and feels bad about his absence. A talk with you would mean a lot to him."
"I hope so," she said earnestly. "He does so much for me, it's the least I can do for him."
And Lelouch did do a lot for her, much more than he told her. That she knew. She acted the sweet and innocent little sister because that was what Lelouch wanted and needed her to be, but she knew that he was not an employee of the Ashford Consortium. Her sense of smell was almost as good as her hearing, and many nights Lelouch and Sayoko had come home smelling of tangy iron. Blood.
Bella and Lucinda were always careful to filter all of the outside news she heard, but she was extremely perceptive. A passing conversation in the park, the news playing in a parked car, even whispered conversations between her caretakers themselves. Bits here and there put together a narrative, and a different view of her beloved brother.
She knew that he harbored a deep hatred of their father, along with a promise to make the world a better place for her. That the two had combined to create... Zero.
It answered too many questions, and filled too many blanks to be untrue. Her brother was a revolutionary-turned-emperor. He had set off a Japanese revolution against Britannia and used it to make himself Emperor by marrying some Japanese princess. And now he was off in Europe doing who-knows-what.
Lies. Lies upon lies. Some days she felt like a songbird in a gilded cage—pampered and loved but at the same time a mere ornament to be ignored whenever convenient, and permanently locked away for its own good. Some days she just wanted to yell and scream at her wardens Bella and Lucinda to tell her the truth for once, instead of kowtowing along with her Big Brother's grand masquerade.
But she just couldn't. Lelouch loved her. That she knew completely. He loved her more than life itself. Whether she liked it or not, nearly everything he did was for her benefit. He lied because he didn't want to burden her with the knowledge of the actions he was undertaking in her name.
And it was true, when she had first put the pieces together, that the revelation had horrified her. What had to have been thousands dead in the name of her gentler world, in her name. She had thought about it for days before finally coming to terms with it.
The dead were dead. Lelouch had gone too far now to turn back, though she knew he would if she asked. But if she did, those lives would have been wasted.
No, independent of her sensibilities, the only way to make her brother's sacrifices not in vain was to let him complete his crusade. There would be more deaths, but she also trusted her brother. He would succeed, if given time. All she could do was play along and be as supporting as she could—serving as the wall keeping his monstrous side at bay.
She didn't like describing her brother as 'monstrous', but she knew that a part of him was. He'd never consciously let her see it, but nevertheless she had. Such as several years ago, when a Britannian man in the park had commented that 'disgusting invalids' such as her should be kept inside or euthanized.
Lelouch had been with her. He'd whispered something to Lucinda, who remained behind to 'run some errands'. The next day, one of her classmates took a leave of absence for several days. Apparently, her older brother had been found dead with his neck snapped. In the same park. She'd dismissed it at the time, but when the pieces began coming together, that one had clicked into place as well.
Which was worse, she wondered, that he'd had a man killed for insulting her, or that she had only discovered it by sheer coincidence?
Yet he'd done it for her. He couldn't be changed, only guided. She was the part that kept him human, and that was all she could be. She couldn't walk. She couldn't see. But that was the little bit of good she could do for both him and the world.
She heard the footsteps outside her guarded little haven before the doorbell rang. Lucinda departed, and returned several seconds later. "Lady Ashford is here, mistress. Shall I show her in?"
"Of course. You needn't ask." That was what Milly did, after all. And perhaps that was why they were such good friends. They were part of what kept Lelouch human.
Kaguya stared out the window of Carine's old office in the Tokyo Citadel, her hands perched across her lap as satisfaction welled up within her. Cranes filled the skyline as Neo-Japanese contruction crews toiled continuously, not to rebuild the Japan that once was, but to engineer a better one.
It was a small empire, ready to be snuffed like a candle at the first unexpected gust.
But it was real.
Its citizens adored her, its soldiers hung on her every word. Its coffers flowed with Euros as shipments of refined Sakuradite were sent out northwards through the Russian Trans-Siberian Maglev Railway. Given that most of the EU's Sakuradite once came from Siberia, they had all of the systems in place to securely transport it. Now that they had access to Japan, they'd simply had to expand it through the small island.
She could now theoretically take a bullet train straight from Tokyo to Paris, in somewhere around seven hours. One of the few points in Europe's favor was that while Britannia focused their expenditure into expansion and military, Europe had placed it into infrastructure.
That was why they had incredible feats of technology like the TSMR and the Terraform Africa Project under their belts.
A massive wave as a ship was released from the drydock drew her attention to the Ashford District, where crews were working around the clock to build a functional Neo-Japanese Navy. The borrowed Union ships they currently had defending them were nothing to scoff at, but they weren't enough to fight a full Britannian fleet.
As the old Japanese government had learned, a land invasion was the worst ground to fight the Britannians on. If Emperor Charles or Prince-Minister Schneizel got any notions about breaking the ceasefire, her only hope would be to hold them off in the seas and air. In the latter case, unfortunately, an airfleet would have to wait. Though at least her husband would be able to justify Neo-Japan receiving the second airfleet due to its strategic importance and isolation, once the materials were secured.
The reality of the skyline before her still shocked her at times. She thought back to her days among the Six Houses, squabbling and scraping in the vain dream of reviving the corpse they all naively idolized. The empire she saw before her now was greater than Japan had ever been.
Industry, technology, wealth, family, growth. With the guidance of her husband and Count Soresi, Neo-Japan was prospering under her rule.
Thanks to the now-universal CHIPs, she could completely regiment the lives of her citizens into perfect harmony. Every step was in line, and every heart beat in sync. Every citizen was happy to be doing their part for the nation. The mathematical efficiency of it pleased her more than she'd care to admit.
And with the fact that Neo-Japan was building anew, it was able to set aside enough farmlands and mines to remain largely self-sufficient, independent of the need for African resources like the rest of the EU.
It was more than she'd ever dreamed. Not only were the Japanese free and prospering, but she was their Empress. The crowds adored her, stopping whatever they were doing to cheer and shout and cry at her car whenever it passed them in the street. Her office received hundreds of heartfelt letters every day, from children to the elderly.
If this was the peace her husband sought for the world, she wished hell upon any that stood in his way.
The Ritz. It had been stated so casually to Leila that she'd almost not realized that Price had meant that Ritz.
She'd been a little girl the last time she'd set foot in a place that radiated this much opulence. Even with her best dress on, she was pretty sure it was only her deliberate noble bearing that kept the doorman from outright stopping her at the entrance.
And once inside, she still felt like an impostor. Paris' elite dined to her left and lounged to her right, their curious and occasionally affronted gazes following her as she approached the reception desk.
"Can I help you?" asked the woman manning it, her tone implying her dubiousness to the notion. Leila noted a pair of burly valets move to a position where they would conveniently be on hand to either assist her or throw her out—and Leila could take a guess which one they anticipating.
"I'm here to meet with George Price. Is he in?"
The change was instantaneous. An air of servility overtook the woman, and one of the valets backed off. "Lady Malcal? Of course. Mister Price is awaiting you in the Chopin Suite. Olivier will show you there, if you please."
Leila almost started as the remaining valet stepped forward, bowing at the waist and extending an arm to the side in an invitation to follow.
Once more, she was in shock. Not only had the reaction to Price's name been utterly stark, but if she wasn't mistaken, the woman had said the Chopin Suite. As in Frederick Chopin. And the suite he had once made extensive use of at the Paris Ritz.
Exactly who was Price, that one of the most expensive hotel rooms in Paris was his preferred port of call?
The valet, Olivier, stopped before a large, ornate door and unlocked it with a key from his belt. "Mr. Price stated that should you arrive, he would receive you promptly in here. If there is anything we can do to make your visit more pleasurable, you need only but ask."
Hesitantly, Leila stepped through the door as Olivier bowed and departed. The inside of the suite bore all of the lavishness of Versailles with none of the garish quality. Gold filigree carved elaborate patterns across the ceiling, and wide, curtained windows provided warm sunlight entrance into the small sitting room. Soft, slow piano music wafted through the air and into Leila's ears.
The piece was quiet, and almost mournful. It was a song of... something lost, but beautiful and remembered. As Leila listened to it, each time the music refrained it also elaborated, becoming more and more its own work—surpassing what had come before. Gradually the melancholy and nostalgia were outweighed by progress and triumph.
But right as the final refrain faded, it played the original hints of that lost glory. Leila felt moisture on her cheeks, and realized that a tear had slipped from her eye. 'Victory, but at what cost?'. That was what the piece's theme.
Shaking her head in an ultimately futile attempt to clear it of the emotions stirred by the music, she stepped further into the suite. After passing through a doorway, she found herself in a small sitting room, decorated with antique furniture and paintings. The far end of the room was dominated by a large grand piano, at which sat Mr. Price, in the flesh. He was clad in suit pants, loafers, and a grey vest over a white dress shirt and red necktie.
"What song was that?" she asked, almost involuntarily.
"Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, Op. 9, No. 2," he said simply, as if he knew and understood her feelings. "My mother taught me to play as a boy, though to tell the truth I never quite appreciated the art. Now that I am of an age to enjoy composers like Chopin, I find that my fingers are nowhere near as nimble as they once were."
He finally turned to face her, and she saw well-concealed bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. "Funny, how life often works like that, isn't it?"
"That is human nature," she said. "That eternal irony is embedded into who we are."
Price snorted bemusedly. "God does not play dice, but he certainly has his little jokes, doesn't he?" Something about the statement seemed to snap the man from his reflection, and he focused on Leila fully. "But I did not invite you here to lament on the human condition. I invited you to offer you a job. Have you lunched yet? I was just about to have something myself, and would be delighted if you would join me."
Courtesy urged Leila to accept, and soon they were dining over fillet of rabbit, with mustard sauce and celery spaghettis from L'Espadon.
"Now," said Price after taking a sip of his Pinot Noir, "I feel that my exit last night was rather hasty, but I am sure that you understand the impetus I was under, yes?"
Considering the bloodstains she'd left on the God of Clay's doorstep, yes, Leila did. "It's quite alright, Mr. Price."
He smiled in gratitude. "Thank you. To provide a touch of background for my offer, its important to know that last night's little incident has not been an anomaly among the party's meetings. Our message is threatening to many of the more militant democratic groups throughout the EU, and there have been dozens of attacks on party members and meetings orchestrated by them. Worse, with the Union's political climate, few police forces are willing to protect us."
"The police last night were sympathizers," Leila pointed out, but Price shook his head.
"The officers were sympathizers. When I went to their station to see about pressing charges against those thugs, I found that the precinct Captain had already released them without so much as processing. I did some digging, and found out that he had done so on orders from even higher up."
Leila put two and two together. "Some high-end Parisian politician is backing agitators against the party's activities." The thought sickened her. Politicians like that were what had turned the Union's political system into a game with loaded dice. They forced the Union's citizens to struggle through the effort of playing, to bear responsibility and pay for the game, but the system was weighted in favor of an outcome that he had no power to escape.
"Precisely. And its not just Paris. The Pax and the Vox have been using tricks such as these to squash small and threatening parties for decades, with no answer to it. Long have I been wracking my brain, trying to find a way to counter it. And in you, my dear, I believe that I've finally found a solution."
"Me?" she couldn't help but ask.
Price folded his hands as he leaned closer. "I've been having my bodyguards run facial recognition through the security cameras at all of my meetings, largely in a futile endeavor to prevent an incident like last night's. Your military background drew Mr. Lupin's attention, and he had me look over your dossier before I spoke. A British Countess, a Captain of the infamous 'Fatal Foreign' Legions, and an independently wealthy yet politically inactive young woman in Paris of all cities."
The list did seem accomplished when phrased like that, but Leila knew the heavy burdens that had come with each of those qualities.
"The party requires protection," continued Price, his tone heavy and serious, "and the police will not do so as long as the Pax and Vox hold their leashes. The larger the party grows, the more violent, aggressive, and desperate the attacks will become. I have seen it before. If the party's message is to endure, it must protect itself."
"An organized party security division," completed Leila.
"Once more, you see perfectly. While we usually have a veteran like Private Dubois manning the door with a cudgel, the next attack is unlikely to be with firecrackers and blackjacks. And we won't have a woman with your keen aim in every meeting for when someone pulls a knife. We need someone like you to gather volunteers and establish an organization that will ensure the Ave Imperator message is not squashed. To protect it by force of arms, if necessary."
Leila slowly set her glass down, leveling a stare at the man across from her for several long moments. "Mr. Price, you assume a great deal. I attended a single meeting of your party, and had blood on my hands by the time I left it. What makes you believe that I have any willingness to form a paramilitary in your name?"
"Not in my name, but in the party's. I founded the Ave Imperators, not for power, but to save the Union for destruction, and I know that you see that. I watched you last night, Lady Malcal. You too recognize that the Union's current course will see us eaten alive by the Britannians come Recommencement Day. And even if we somehow persevered, what have we preserved? A decrepit democracy led by the fickle whims of the masses. The Ave are Europe's only hope to prosper as Napoleon envisioned."
Argument after argument clamored through Leila's mind, but each was methodically shot down by arguments from the other side with the speed of a machine gun battery.
He was right. God damn it, Price was right. If you wanted to see what the right Emperor could do, all you needed was one look at Neo-Japan. Two years ago it had been a desolate hellhole under Britannia's bootheel. Now, under Emperor Zero, it was arguably the most prosperous state in the Union. In fact, it was also Zero that was kicking the FPA up and down Tangiers to finally bring an end to the African Conflict, which the Hemicycle had permitted to fester.
She sighed, once more looking up to meet Price's gaze. To her surprise, there was no look of victory in his eyes at her agreement, as she'd been expecting. Instead they were almost soft, understanding, and approving. The eyes her father had whenever she made him proud.
It made her feel better about the decision.
Price stood and extended his hand. Despite her hesitance, she accepted it.
"Countess Malcal, permit me the honor of naming you Captain Malcal of the Praetorian Guard."
[End Chapter]
Hello again, readers, and welcome back to Darwin: Act 2. Neolyph here, as always. My god did this chapter get long on me. I originally intended it to be shorter, but I felt obliged to include cameos from characters like Nunnally and Kaguya, to show what they've been up to since the timeskip. As a side note, I realized as I was writing this yesterday that this story has made it to the front page of Code Geass favorites. Considering that Code Geass was the fandom that first got me into fanfiction, it actually means quite a lot to me that I've managed to somehow crawl my way up to the Top 25. Thank you, to everyone that's read, reviewed, followed, and favorited. When I've had a shit day at work, a notification on my phone that someone's left a review on my story always cheers me up. So, like I said, thanks guys. Not much else to say, so I'm going to jump right into reviews.
BlackTyrantValvatorez: I'm still one the fence about introducing new Code Bearers. I have an idea about how one could spice up the Chinese section of this arc, but its still something I'm working out.
TheSmilingMask: Thanks, that means a lot. Leila is on the harem train, though I've yet to decide exactly when it will pull into station. To be honest, Akito the Exiled just annoyed the hell out of me, which is part of why Leila and Smilas are pretty much the only two characters I've salvaged from that trainwreck of a spinoff, and rebuilt an OC European Union from spit, Romantic literature, and duct tape.
Stormhawk fan SHhype: The Tarkin voice is fitting, but for Reid I have something roughly along slightly-younger John Hurt's voice in my head for his lines.
RandomReview: Well that's great to hear. I'm still putting the pieces in place for the first 'check' against Lelouch, and I aim to have it out within 2-3 chapters.
Guest: You ought to use a handle, since you're providing some of the better critiques for this story. I actually own Battletech, but I keep dropping it around the prologue. I think I just need to power through the unfamiliar controls, but I haven't had the time of late. The Raptors have ranged weaponry, but against tanks, close-range is your friend in a Knightmare, especially when you have flight capabilities. And while MVS swords would be expensive as hell to mass-produce, streamlining the system to just the point of a lance makes them much cheaper while sacrificing minimal armor-penetration. Production-scale energy weapons are also something on Lelouch's project log. On your other review, the US' two party system does make sense from a democratic perspective, it also makes both parties as bland and homogenized as possible, which I dislike. In canon Leila was a KMF pilot, but not in the Darwin-verse. And Lupin was just a name that came to mind, mostly because of my mental image of the character. Predatory. For the submarines, as Smilas lamented, Britannian black subs are nightmares to deal with, and a large factor in their ability to control the seas.
Akuma-Heika: It's in the Tenth Canto, LIX, "'My guard! My old guard!' exclaim'd that god of clay". I only know the reference because my Western Literature professor was practically obsessed with both Byron and Napoleon, and used this line as an example of both.
aew.3: Oh its definitely APGTE. Lelouch needed an appropriate motto for his Legions of Terror, and I couldn't think of a better one.
GeneratedName: The FPA divisions have their own styles because Schneizel essentially grew them from seven different African separatist groups, all with their own different styles and philosophies. It made them unpredictable, and also unstable enough the Schneizel would be able to pull the lynchpin and topple them at will. I'm not painting over colonial atrocities, merely portraying an alternate Colonial Africa where Europe simply decided that Africa would be far easier to manage if they didn't treat the Africans like shit. The attitude didn't completely take hold, hence the FPA. And the EU aren't the 'good' guys in this story, but perhaps the least of three evils. Schneizel's own plan is predicated on the virtues of the Britannian system, which we will see more of, along with the Chinese.
chimera629: That was the joke. Lelouch has basically gone full Bond-villain, with his elaborate global gambits and flying doom fortress.
Generation Zero: Absolutely, the EU leaders are eventually going to be quite unhappy with the threat Lelouch presents to their power, something he will eventually use to his advantage. If you haven't notice by now, though, I've basically thrown out most of Akito the Exiled and rebuilt the EU from scratch. I really didn't like the spinoff. The closest thing to Euro-Britannia is the FPA, a Britannia-backed separatist movement, but otherwise Europe is part of the Union.
darkabys: That's a good point. Lelouch, at least, is deliberately keeping just a few designs so that he doesn't have to waste resources on spare parts for twelve different designs. And that is interesting world-building for Britannia. I might incorporate something along those lines come next arc.
Zecht: You've basically hit on my main two gripes with this story, looking back. C.C was absent because I was originally going to kill her off instead of V.V, but I changed my mind at the last minute. And the Euphy/Cornelia romance was incredibly rushed. I wanted to incorporate them into the harem, but I was also steaming towards the end of the arc and couldn't think of a better way to do it. The Iscariots will see their reemergence, but they're not exactly the most subtle tools in Lelouch's arsenal, and he still needs to maintain a certain image.
16tonweight: Well shit, this review made my day. Ever since I really got into fine arts about two years ago, when the evolution and meaning of different art styles was patiently explained to me by my Western History professor, I've been a dedicated Romanticist. I think its largely a generational thing. In the same way that the Enlightenment was born as a counter to anti-intellectualism, I've observed that a lot of people my age have embraced Romanticism as a counter to the current Postmodern age of cynicism. In a generation devoid of principles or ideals, where realpolitik reigns supreme, a lot of us admire genuine earnestness and optimism, regardless of the sentiment displayed. To get controversial for a moment, that was why I predicted Trump's election the moment it became clear that Hillary would be his opponent. Clinton was the literal embodiment of stolid, unprincipled modern politics—whereas Trump made constant, bombastic statements left and right, and had a hard opinion on literally anything you asked him. Right or wrong, he stood for something. If you look at it, that's pretty much why he had such an unexpected following from the teenage-young adult demographic. He was the first Romanticist politician that they'd ever seen. As an aside, I gave Ur-Facism a look. I find most of the points a little too irrational for Lelouch, which makes sense considering that Facism is in itself an ultimately poor system of government, but the general vibe of the list does suit his ambitions for the Ave Imperator party. By the way, I've been meaning to find a beta for this story. You seem to have a good grasp of the different elements I'm attempting to work into this fic. Would you be interested?
Well, this has been Neolyph. Signing off.